


Stop Me If You've Heard This One

by boonies



Category: Dong Bang Shin Ki, JYJ - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lawyer, a librarian, and a lunatic walk into a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Me If You've Heard This One

*

 

Yoochun's dead meat.

 

He's got seven hours before he's gotta get his ass to the newsroom, hand in his article to the editors, and let the thing go to print.

 

Yoochun hasn't written the article.

 

It's not even like his news queue was overwhelming today; a few hours spent at a council meeting, couple conversations with drunk businessmen, quick argument with the senior staff. Just... yeah. Real ~hard-hitting stuff. Like a .002% increase in district seven pensions.

 

Frustrated, he ducks into a bar and off the slippery street, brushing snow off his coat.

 

The place is pretty empty, except for a couple of girls cleaning up, so he slumps down at a small table, pulling out his notepad and tablet.

 

What the fuck is he supposed to write.

 

Boring shit gives him migraines but this is his job and he picked it so he should just man the fuck up and deal.

 

_Representative Choi announced an annual increase for public service pensions_ , he starts, then rolls his eyes and adds, _and was then eaten by an axolotl_.

 

Grinning, Yoochun crumples the paper. He's halfway through writing an imaginary obituary for Representative Choi when the door swings open, a gust of wind knocking a coat rack over.

 

A tall dude in a very expensive suit bends to pick it up, apologizing.

 

To the coat rack.

 

Amused, Yoochun watches him pick a table nearby.

 

He's young, suspiciously well-groomed and... pulling out a thick folder of case files.

 

Oh.

 

A lawyer.

 

Yoochun perks up with interest. Not super ethical, but maybe there's juicy shit to glean off this dude.

 

He cranes his neck, trying to read.

 

"What you're doing is punishable by up to a year in prison and a minimum fine of ₩3,000,000," the dude says, not even looking at him.

 

Yoochun snorts. "I take it you're a prosecutor."

 

The guy glances at him, a lightning-quick flash of some familiar indifference flickering through his eyes. "And you're a paparazzo."

 

"Junior reporter for The Herald," Yoochun grins. "But close enough."

 

The dude smiles. "Jung Yunho," he says with a small nod. "What you tried to do is still illegal, though."

 

Yoochun scoots his chair closer. "Not if I cite you as a source."

 

Almost bitterly, Yunho snorts. "My caseload is seven evictions and two foreclosures. Very exciting."

 

Yoochun recognizes that tone. "I'm guessing you need a drink, Jung Yunho."

 

Yunho clicks his pen, staring halfheartedly at the files in front of him. "Accepting bribes is punishable by up to—"

 

"I'm Yoochun."

 

 

*

 

The snowstorm outside is fucking shit up.

 

Yoochun has approximately... six? five? hours before his article goes to print and he's written four words, drank two beers, and repeatedly asked Yunho if he's got a hot sister, preferably of the single variety.

 

"Yeah, I'd sooner ship her off to a monastery," Yunho tells him, unamused.

 

"Yah, I'm a great guy!" Yoochun argues, but it comes out greasy even to his own ears. They're sharing a table at this point, files mixing, so he figures, why not, and asks, "You married?"

 

Yunho scowls at his hand. "Who has time for that." He scans Yoochun's ring finger. "Same?"

 

With a small shrug, Yoochun says, "I'm a lone wolf."

 

"Wolves live in packs," Yunho deadpans.

 

Yoochun opens his mouth to laugh or argue or agree but the door slams open again, a cascade of snowflakes whooshing into the bar.

 

Two guys stumble through the threshold, soaked and miserable. One of them whines loudly, voice like nails on a chalkboard.

 

"The dorms are only five minutes away," he screeches and every head in the bar turns to look him. "Let's just walk home before it gets dark, Changmin-ah, come on, it's fine, it's just snow, it's not like it's post-apocalyptic acid rain, I'm hungry—"

 

~Changmin-ah shakes him off, visibly upset.

 

"GO ON YOUR OWN IF YOU WANNA," he booms. "I DON'T FEEL LIKE DYING BEFORE FINALS."

 

Yunho's mouth twitches but he stays focused on his legal notes.

 

"I don't have the key," the shorter kid pouts, then begrudgingly takes off his coat. "If we get murdered by alcoholics, I'm going to be so pissed."

 

They grab a table opposite Yoochun and Yunho, eyes suspiciously traveling the length of the bar.

 

"We're sober," Yoochun offers because, fuck, he's equal parts procrastinating and sociable. Mostly procrastinating.

 

"Yeah," the whiny one replies, "but are you murderers."

 

Yoochun and Yunho exchange looks.

 

"This one's a lawyer," Yoochun points, cocking his head. "And I don't have enough upper body strength for murdering. Probably."

 

The kid throws his head back and laughs in a ridiculous nasally way that makes everyone in a twenty feet radius chuckle awkwardly.

 

"Do they serve food here?" the other guy asks, unperturbed.

 

Yoochun's never really been here before, so he opens his mouth to tell the guy to look for a menu—

 

"They have some pretty good appetizers," Yunho says, still focused on scanning through his files.

 

*

 

The four of them are tucking into a platter of fried things when the door opens again.

 

The streets outside are pitch black and blindingly white at the same time, and Yoochun has to squint hard to make out the silhouette.

 

The man at the door shudders violently, shaking great big piles of snow off his shoulders, then scans the room, hastily focusing on the fireplace.

 

Yoochun's vaguely aware his mouth is open.

 

And dry.

 

"Is that a chick?" Junsu asks.

 

Yunho and Changmin try to be less obvious when they turn to look.

 

The guy, meanwhile, ninjas his way to the broken fireplace, collapsing into the last available chair. He rubs his gloveless hands, blowing into them, and Yoochun loses focus.

 

Yunho raises a smug eyebrow and grabs a napkin to dab at Yoochun's mouth.

 

"We bought the last cup of soup," he calls out, clearly luring the frostbitten population in, "if you're not into getting hypothermia and dying."

 

The guy by the fireplace looks startled, eyes wide and lips parted, his fringe pinned back and his large glasses misted over.

 

Nope.

 

Nope, nope. Nope.

 

Yoochun automatically kicks Yunho under the table.

 

"Were you talking to me?" the guy asks, blissfully unaware.

 

"Yeah," Yunho smiles, retaliating under the table.

 

Yoochun winces.

 

"I don't wanna die, no," the guy says and shuffles over awkwardly, dragging his chair to their table.

 

Yoochun's not particularly religious but he sends a quick thank you or maybe a giant fuck you to whatever deity left an open spot next to him.

 

"I'm Yunho," Yunho says, in a perfect mix of friendly and polite, and Yoochun's glad at least one of them doesn't come off as a creep.

 

"You're a dude, right?" Junsu asks, sucking on a chicken wing.

 

"JUNSU!"

 

Yoochun's not sure which one of them shrieked it but it doesn't matter because the guy gives a soft little laugh and takes off his glasses to clean them.

 

"A dude, yeah."

 

Yoochun looks away.

 

Shit.

 

The guy puts his glasses back on and smiles. "I'm Jaejoong."

 

*

 

"You're a _librarian_?" Junsu snorts, dying.

 

Jaejoong's cheeks flush.

 

Yoochun's sort of with Junsu on this one.

 

This guy belongs on billboards and magazines. Not in dusty old archives or dark basements.

 

"So," Yunho says, finally pushing his files to the side, "we have a lawyer, a reporter, a librarian, and whatever you two are."

 

"Majoring in software design," Changmin says. "Or maybe history. Or business." He glances at Yunho, studying his face. "Maybe law."

 

Yoochun snorts.

 

Tentatively, Jaejoong turns his head at Junsu to ask, "What about you?"

 

Junsu smiles, eyes bright. "I'm a music major." There's a moment of dazed silence, so Junsu adds, "I sing?"

 

"With that voice," Yoochun and Jaejoong blurt out at the same time.

 

Changmin cracks up like a maniac, one eye narrowing pleasantly.

 

Yunho's more diplomatic. "Well. As long as you enjoy it—"

 

Junsu scowls. "No, I'm _good_. I'm really good."

 

Changmin calms down and makes a face, adding begrudgingly, "Nah, yeah, he's pretty good."

 

Apologetically, Yoochun offers, "I always kinda, I guess, wanted to sing, too."

 

What.

 

Why is he saying this shit.

 

Why can't he stop.

 

"Maybe write songs."

 

Jaejoong turns to watch him. "Yeah. I can see that." He finally takes off his shawl, sufficiently thawed out. "Same."

 

Yunho raises both eyebrows. "Huh. What are the odds?"

 

Changmin mirrors his expression. "What?"

 

Yunho shrugs. "That four of us like music."

 

"Five," Changmin corrects.

 

Yoochun laughs, shaking his head. "If we were ten years younger, we could start a band."

 

Everyone chuckles.

 

And then Yoochun says, "Let's start one anyway."

 

The laughter dies.

 

"Can you guys..." Jaejoong starts cautiously, "dance at all?"

 

Yunho's shoulders tense.

 

"I'm great at it," Changmin says, clapping his hands and swaying not at all rhythmically.

 

"What is that," Yunho laughs. "What are you doing?"

 

Changmin looks bored, slapping his hands together with a lazy shrug. "The military clap."

 

Yunho covers his face, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

 

Yoochun knows his deadline is looming.

 

He's got, what, five, four? hours left.

 

So he says, only half-joking, "We should just get a van and go on the road."

 

Junsu takes a sip of his tea. "And where would we get a van in a snowstorm?"

 

"I have one," Jaejoong offers.

 

"This is our serial killer," Junsu says dramatically, "I knew we'd find one."

 

Jaejoong fixes him with an unimpressed stare. "It's for books."

 

"And bodies."

 

"So we have a van," Changmin interrupts, contemplating. "What else do we need?"

 

Yoochun's heart flattens against his stomach. "Gas."

 

"Guitars," Yunho adds.

 

"Keyboard," Jaejoong nods.

 

"Sleeping bags."

 

"Food."

 

"Makeup."

 

Junsu blinks. "You guys sound... um, kinda serious."

 

Yoochun feels a bitter pang of resentment towards the only person at this table pursuing his dream.

 

"It'd be pretty easy," he shrugs. A mental flash of handing in his resignation flickers in his head, so he says, "We could just take off, right now."

 

Yunho pats him on the back. "Time to switch to tea."

 

Quietly, Changmin says, "I don't know. It might be fun."

 

"Riding a dragon might be fun," Junsu argues. "Doesn't mean it'd be a good idea."

 

"Dragons aren't real," Jaejoong says, adjusting his glasses.

 

"Neither is your crazy band," Junsu says, then falters. "What would we even sing."

 

Yoochun's head is suddenly full of songs.

 

It's so full of melodies and lyrics and arrangements he's getting a headache.

 

"I have some migraine medicine, if you need it," Jaejoong says, startling him.

 

Shit.

 

Yoochun feels like an asthma attack is about to start.

 

"Aaand we're already doing drugs," Junsu laughs, ridiculous. "Okay, the band is officially real."

 

Yunho leans on his hands, thinking. "It's real when it has a name."

 

"Our initials?" Changmin suggests, pulling out a pen and scribbling down on a menu. "Well... that... looks like someone fell asleep on the keyboard."

 

Yoochun suddenly wants to bail.

 

He's suddenly tired. Suddenly old. Suddenly terrified.

 

"Well, it's been fun," he says, pasting a grin and twisting an elbow to get his coat off the chair. "But I think the storm's over and I gotta get back to work."

 

Four confused faces turn on him instantly.

 

Yunho's the first to nod. "Stay safe out there."

 

"But you—" Junsu starts with a whine.

 

Changmin nudges him.

 

"It was nice meeting you," Jaejoong says softly.

 

Yoochun gives a slight bow.

 

His eyes hurt.

 

He slips into his coat and wraps his scarf around his neck and puts on his gloves.

 

He packs up his tablet and notebook methodically, aware at least half of the table is watching him.

 

"Don't follow strangers into their vans," he grins in parting, then forces himself to head for the door, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

 

A gust of wind slams into him the moment he leaves the bar.

 

He stands for a while, eyes closed, cheeks cold.

 

A note plays in his head, a crotchet followed by a breve and double flats, a whole phrase swirling around his body, wrapping from his toes to his ears.

 

He shakes them all loose.

 

Stubbornly, he pulls his collar up and starts trudging through the snow.

 

He writes his article in under an hour.


End file.
